With the entire crowd fixated on me, I briefly consider rescinding the offer, as it wasn’t an offer I made to begin with. But then I think of poor little Prin and decide to take her place as tribute. I just hope she won’t take the news too hard. I step forward.
“Yes!” Prin shouts out as she does a quick fist pump in the air. She gleefully hops down from the stage and rejoins her place in the crowd. Within seconds, she is back to giggling and chatting with her friends. I’m sure she’s hurting on the inside, I tell myself as I walk toward the stage.
I reach the bottom of the steps and stare up at Effu. She extends a hand, dripping in diamonds, and I grab on tightly as I climb up beside her. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Effu says regally in the Capital accent, “I’d like to present da first District Twelve volunteer in ova sixty years!”
Not one person in the crowd claps. It’s dead silent. One person farts. To their credit, instead of applauding, the people of District 12 solemnly raise their hands in the air. Then, I watch as each person lifts a middle finger and flips the bird to Effu and the cameras.
Effu is enraged. “Put ya fingers down!” she shouts. “Put dem down now!” No one budges. “Very well. Our video editors gonna pixelate each and every one of ya hands.” A loud groan emanates from the production crew’s trailer.
I stare out over the crowd. I spot my mother, who is frantically waving a District 12 pennant and flashing me a big thumbs-up. I see Carol preparing for the male tribute to be selected. He’s staring into a tiny handheld mirror, combing his hair and making kissing faces at himself.
As Effu prepares to signal the beginning of the male tribute selection, I take a seat beside Buttitch. He sizes me up for a moment, then opens his mouth to speak. “I’ve got a feeling about you, kid.” For a second, I’m comforted. Then Buttitch turns toward the front of the crowd, where several gamblers and bookies have congregated. “I’d give her thirty to one odds,” he yells. The gamblers commence a frenzy of shouting and toss around wads of cash. In addition to being known for winning the Hunger Games, Buttitch has a reputation for having a serious gambling addiction. He’ll gamble on anything—the Hunger Games, weather, coin flips, traffic lights. He once bet his own grandmother she couldn’t survive a whole week without her medication. And he was right.
“Hey, Buttitch!” One of the bookies is shouting up to him on the stage. At the podium, Effu is visibly irritated. “Buttitch! We’re putting the over-under on the girl’s kills at two tributes. You want a piece of this action?”
“You bet I do!” Buttitch yells back. “Under!” He leaps out of his chair and heads toward the bookie. In his haste, Buttitch trips over the microphone wire and tumbles headfirst off the stage. He crashes into the ground with a loud thud. The crowd falls silent yet again, save for a few more farts.
While an ambulance crew hustles to tend to Buttitch, Effu announces the beginning of the male tribute selection. The cameras zoom in on the last boy to put his finger to his nose. I look up to the screen. I see a portly boy whose fingers are not on his nose but wrapped around a loaf of bread.
“Pita Malarkey!” Effu shouts.
My heart sinks. Pita Malarkey. I’ve heard this name before. Yes, when they took attendance for Super Fun Day like a half an hour ago. But even before that. Pita is my age and goes to school with me. His parents are bakers. And most important, Pita knew me at my most vulnerable moment.
Nearly three years have passed since my encounter with him. My father had just died in a freak explosion at the telemarketing office. Mother, Prin, and I struggled to find food. At one point, I suggested that we eat Butterball, but Prin protested. “Just the tail, to see how he tastes,” I offered. Prin remained firmly opposed. So I took it upon myself to get a job in the telemarketing office.
At work, I quickly distinguished myself as one of District 12’s worst telemarketers. I smelled horrible, I didn’t make any sales, and I spent most of my time stealing office supplies to trade in the Nob. One afternoon, after only two weeks on the job, my supervisor informed me that if I did not shape up, he would fire me. I promised to do better.
I sat down at my desk—or where my desk had been located before I stole it—and looked at the next name on my customer list. Mr. Pumpernickel Malarkey. The baker. I dialed his number.
“Hello?” said a gruff-sounding woman. It was Pumpernickel’s wife, Sour Dough-Malarkey.
“Hi, ma’am. I’m Kantkiss, a representative with the District Twelve Call Catalog, and I’m wondering if you’re interested in any of our new products, such as—”
She cut me off. “Do you want to order a cake, or what?” Mrs. Dough-Malarkey was not considered one of District 12’s nicest citizens.
But before she could hang up, another voice came on the line.
“Mom, let me talk. We should order some more supplies for the store.” This voice was different from Mrs. Dough-Malarkey’s. It was soft and warm, like what a loaf of bread’s voice would sound like. “Hi, I’m Pita Malarkey, Mr. Malarkey’s son.”
I knew him a bit from school. He was chubby and pale. He moved slowly and breathed laboriously. He also had a very large head. But beyond those flattering characteristics, I knew little about him.
“We’d like to order some cooking trays,” he said.
And just like that, I had made a sale. Granted, we did not sell cooking trays in the catalog, but my supervisor wouldn’t uncover this discrepancy for another week. By that time, I had made a few more sales. In one small moment, Pita had given me the confidence to be a moderately successful telemarketer. My paycheck grew to be enough to support Mother and Prin, and I supplemented it with plenty of hunting on the side. We were back on track, thanks to the Boy with the Head.
Now, as I stand on stage in the public square, Pita walks toward me with his giant head hung low. When he reaches the stairs to the stage, he struggles to climb them, stopping every few steps to catch his breath. He’s really out of shape. At one point he sits down, sweat dripping down his face. After about thirty seconds of rest, he proceeds and ascends the fourth and final stair to the stage.
“District Twelve!” shouts Effu. “Meet ya tributes!”
Aside from the gamblers, who are nearly hysterical, the crowd reacts glumly to Pita and me. Mayor Underwear strides over to the podium and thanks Effu. He is about to recite the Oath of Loyalty. It’s required that each district’s mayor read it annually at Super Fun Day. It’s Capital propaganda and the people hate it. From a few feet away, I can hear him whispering to himself before he begins. “Okay, Underwear. You got this. You practiced all week. You didn’t even do your other work, you just practiced. That work was really important; you shouldn’t have neglected it. But you did. So take a few deep breaths, and do this right. They’re going to love you.”
As soon as he begins speaking, he is met with a chorus of boos. In accordance with Capital law, he must continue. I feel slightly bad for Mayor Underwear, before I remember the peril of my own situation. I hardly listen and only realize my mind has wandered when the Oath is finished. For most of District 12, Super Fun Day has concluded. The citizens all head home, except for the homeless ones, who mill around the square for a few minutes before selecting a place to sit down.
A few Pacemakers escort me over to the Injustice Building, where I am placed in a lavishly decorated room. It has a glimmering chandelier, a bearskin carpet, and a sofa. I have never seen a sofa before. At first, I lie down underneath it. That doesn’t seem right. Then I stand behind it for a while. Close, but definitely not what a sofa is for. Finally, I figure out how it works. When Effu walks in a minute later, I’m straddling one of the sofa’s arms like I’m riding a horse. As I teeter back and forth, knocking over an end table, Effu tells me that for the next hour, I will receive visitors who have come to say their good-byes before I depart for the Capital.
Prin and my mother are the first to arrive. Mother is ecstatic. “Can you believe this is actually where the tributes say good-bye every year?” She snaps a few p
ictures with a disposable camera. “Buttitch Totalapathy probably sat in that very same chair!”
Prin is less enthusiastic. She keeps glancing at the clock on the wall. I can tell that this is difficult for her. She’s really going to miss me.
“Get away from me!” she shrieks, as I try to pull her in for a hug. “Mom, Kantkiss won’t stop touching me!” Prin is so adorable. I know she’s just trying to be brave.
“Kantkiss,” my mother says, “promise me one thing.” I know what’s coming. She’s going to ask me to promise that I’ll do my best to survive. That no matter how tough it gets in the arena, no matter how desperate and violent the situation may seem, I must try to make it. “Promise me that you will get the president’s autograph.”
Before I can respond, Prin is tugging on my mother’s shirt. “Can we get out of here?”
“Oh, all right,” my mother says. She takes a few last photos. “Kantkiss,” she says from behind the camera, “get out of the way, you’re blocking the sofa.” After the flash goes off, she heads for the door. “Remember: autograph.”
As they disappear out the door, I begin to wonder whether I’ll ever see them again. But within seconds, my next visitor arrives. I’m surprised to see that it’s Pita’s father, Pumpernickel Malarkey. I’ve dealt with him in the market and at his bakery, but I can’t fathom what he’d be doing here on Super Fun Day. Shouldn’t he be visiting his own son?
“Hi, Kantkiss. I just wanted to come wish you good luck,” he says, pulling a neatly wrapped package from his coat. “I also wanted to give you these cookies.” He hands me the package. What an incredibly nice gesture, I think to myself. Even though I might kill his son on national television in a few days, he’s treating me with kindness. “Finally,” he adds, “I want you to know that Pita is a very slow runner, and his most vulnerable points are his stomach and his crotch.” What a kind man!
Pumpernickel exits the room, and just as I’m about to climb atop the sofa again, his wife, Mrs. Sour Dough-Malarkey, bursts through the door. “Give me those!” she shouts, prying the cookies from my hands. Then she leaves.
My next visitor is less surprising. Carol glides into the room like an angel. He approaches the sofa like an expert and sits down on its cushion. “Ohhh,” I say. I take a seat beside him. Carol begins to speak. He’s talking about perseverance and survival, but I’m too distracted by his beautiful mouth and his perfect nose to listen to a word he says. His deep, dark eyes look so concerned. I can’t process a single sentence while looking at them.
A few minutes pass and Carol stands up to leave. I’m jolted back to attention. “Anyway, as long as you do that, I think you should be fine,” he says. I quickly nod my head in agreement. Just as I begin to fault myself for not listening, I lose myself gazing at Carol’s amazing butt as he strolls out of the room as smoothly as he arrived.
Badge Underwear, the mayor’s daughter, walks through the door just after Carol’s exit. “Kantkiss, I want you to know that you’re my best friend and I’ll be cheering for you,” she says. I’m shocked because I don’t really have any friends, and I definitely don’t like Badge. But before I tell her this, the gold pin on her dress catches my eye.
“Badge? Since you’re my best friend and all, then you wouldn’t mind giving me your pin, would you?” I bat my eyelashes a few times to look sweet.
“My pin? Oh, of course, Kantkiss! I’d be honored if you’d wear it.” She removes it from her dress and hands it to me.
“Right—wear it,” I say. I’m going to sell this thing the first chance I get, I think to myself.
Badge says a quick good-bye. Unexpectedly, one more person walks into the room to see me. It’s Mrs. Davis, my schoolteacher. She drops a pile of papers into my lap. “Here’s the homework for the days you’ll be missing,” she says. Then, like those before her, Mrs. Davis heads for the door. Effu pokes her head in the room.
“It’s time to go to da Capital!” she shrieks.
“Nobody else has come to say good-bye?” I ask.
“Nope. Congratulations, ya had da fewest visitors in Hunger Games history,” Effu says.
We walk over to the train station to board a high-speed train. On the platform, I see Pita. His eyes are wet with tears and he’s drying them with a baguette. We’re ushered into the same plush compartment as the train’s engines spring to life.
In school, they tell us that the Capital is built in a region once called “California.” District 12 is in an area formerly known as “Cleveland.” They also teach us about how that world ended and how Peaceland began, but I zone out a lot in class so I can’t really remember. Sorry if you wanted to know about that part.
Effu beckons me and Pita to a dinner in the train’s dining car. When I walk in, I’m speechless. The table is covered with more food than I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Bacon cheeseburgers, chili dogs, nachos, french fries, and General Tso’s chicken are spread across the table on large platters. Pita begins to hyperventilate. I plant my face right into the pile of burgers. It’s heavenly. It tastes even better than the finest squirrel meat.
Using my hands, I shovel food into my mouth until I’m stuffed. I wipe my mouth on the tablecloth, but once it’s drenched in sauce, I begin wiping my mouth on Effu’s shirtsleeve. Effu is disgusted. “Each year, da tributes’ manners are worse den da year before,” she says. While she complains, Pita blows his nose into a hamburger bun. Effu dry-heaves for a few seconds before beginning to speak. “Ya need ta be on ya best behavior for da sponsors,” she says. “Dis won’t do.”
Effu’s right. We have to consider how we look to the sponsors. Sponsors are an important part of the Hunger Games. They can deliver gifts of supplies to tributes while they’re in the arena. Receiving a sponsorship gift can make the difference between life and death.
The door slides open and Buttitch walks in. “Effu, can you spot me a few hundred dollars?” he asks.
Effu tosses her napkin onto the table and gets up from her seat. “No, Buttitch!” she shouts, leaving the room.
Buttitch takes her seat at the table. Before Pita can stop him, he grabs the hamburger bun from Pita’s plate and takes a large bite. “Hm, didn’t know they put mayonnaise on these,” he says, as he finishes it off.
As a former Hunger Games champion—also known as a serial killer—Buttitch will coach Pita and me throughout the competition. His coaching record is an encouraging 0–24. Many people in District 12 think his gambling addiction is to blame for his poor performance.
“Do either of you have some money I can borrow?” Buttitch asks. “I’ll get it back to you. I’ll double it. It’s a sure thing.” Pita and I shake our heads. “Too bad,” he says. “Look, I don’t have a whole lot of time to talk—I’m betting the conductor that he can’t go twice the speed limit without derailing the train—but I just want to say a few words of advice for when we arrive.”
Pita and I lean in to listen. “When we get to the Capital,” he says, “eat at O’Doyle’s. It’s the best pub in the city. Great buffalo wings.” This hardly seems useful, but when I glance at Pita, he’s hurriedly writing “O’Doyle’s wings” on the back of his hand. “And just as important,” Buttitch continues, “listen to your stylists.”
Just then, the train starts to slow down. I look out the window. We’re already pulling into the Capital. The train is cruising up Main Street in the shadow of a magnificent castle, steepled with spires and surrounded by a large moat. We pass the faded image of a cartoon mouse wearing white gloves. Buttitch tells us a bit about the city. “There are a few distinct neighborhoods. Over there is Tomorrowland, and that over there is Epcot.” He’s pointing out the window. “And there’s the Training Center.” We’ve arrived.
Ouch!” I cry as another strip of wax is peeled off, taking the last of my lower-back hair with it.
“Cool it, mon,” shouts Venereal, one of my assistant stylists. Like Effu, she speaks with the strange Capital accent, drawing out the letters into sounds I’ve never heard b
efore. “Ya got bear fur back here! Relax, we almost done. Now roll over to ya backside.”
I feel tired, as I didn’t sleep well in the train station’s motel last night. The bed was too soft and clean.
I’m lying in the middle of a cold room filled with cosmetic supplies and mirrors. This is where my stylists will give me a makeover and costume for the Opening Ceremony. They’re a strange bunch, my stylists. Like all Capital residents, their speech, fashions, and mannerisms are like nothing I’ve ever encountered.
Another assistant, Flabbiest, sits in the corner stroking his cosmetic horns. He stands and walks over. “You always do da waxin’,” he complains to Venereal.
“Well, maybe if ya had both arms, ya’d be half as good as me,” Venereal says. It’s true, Flabbiest, in keeping with this season’s fashions, has no left arm. It’s been deliberately lopped off at the shoulder. Although it seems peculiar, even in District 12 we are amazed by the beautiful asymmetry of what we call the amputistas filling television talk shows and runways.
I hope they don’t chop off my arm, I think to myself, shivering in the cold. I’m completely naked. A blank slate for the styling team to work with.
Flabbiest begins to spread cream all over my face. “Chin up, missy. We gonna shave ya whiskers,” he says.
As his razor begins shearing away long wisps of my facial hair, I think about how in the Crack it’s a mark of strength for a woman to have a few proud whiskers. When I sit up, clean-shaven, the last assistant, Octopus, nods in approval. Her smile reveals how fashion savvy she really is: she has no teeth.
“Dat does it,” Flabbiest says. He sounds pleased with his work. “We’ve gotten rid of da coarsest hair, removed da fungus and moles, and treated ya scoliosis. We even fixed ya breasts, so now dey’re da same size.”
The Hunger Pains: A Parody Page 2